“Who was driving?”
It is the question he has been waiting for. She asks it casually, as if uninterested in the answer. He responds the same way, without pause, without hesitation, without thinking of Harper grabbing the keys, jumping inside, and tearing out of the lot.
“Kaia” he says with certainty. “It was her father’s Beamer. She always drove. ”
They believe him. The evidence has all burned away. There’s only his word. And when Harper wakes up, groggy and confused, she believes him too.
“I can’t remember,” she says, her voice soft but angry. These days, she is always angry. “Nothing. Just school, that morning, then . . . here. I can’t remember. “ She closes her eyes and knits her brow. She can’t rub her forehead—her arms are caught in a web of wires and tubes. He surprises himself pressing his palm to her head, brushing her hair off her face.
“There’s nothing to remember,” he tells her. “You two got into the car. And Kaia drove away.”
It’s the last time he sees her. Soon she’s done with visitors, except Miranda. But he knows she believes him.
They all do.
Some days, he even believes himself.
He drove Harper home, stopping only once for her to hop out and throw up in some bushes.
“Sorry,” she said weakly, climbing back into the car.
“We’ve all been there,” he assured her. “Just as long as you don’t hurl in my car.” He patted the dashboard fondly. “Then I dump you out on the side of the road and you can find your own way home.”
She chuckled—then moaned and leaned forward, cradling her head in her arms as if the laughter made her brain hurt. He knew the feeling. “That’s what I love about you,” she said in a muffled voice. “There’s no confusion about where your loyalties lie. You look out for your car—”
“Of course.”
“You look out for yourself—”
“Naturally.”
“And the rest of us can find our own way home.”
“You know me too well, Grace.” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “You always have.”
chapter
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3
“Can I carry your books for you?”
“Can I get you a soda?”
“Could I stand in line and get you some lunch?”
“She said I could stand in line!”
“But you got to drop her stuff at her locker—”
“Girls!” Harper massaged her temples as the two girls abruptly stopped their bickering.
“What is it?”
“What do you need?”
She sighed. She’d been waiting for this moment for three years, ever since she’d spent one eternal day sophomore year traipsing around after a bitchy blond senior with an undeserved superiority complex. King and Queen for a Day was a senior tradition—on paper, it meant that each underclassmen showered his or her designated senior with affection and treats. In reality, it meant spending the day being primped and pampered by your own personal servant—or, in Harper’s case, two.
Who knew being waited on hand and foot could be so exhausting?
Of course, perhaps she could have enjoyed the novelty of the experience a bit more had the two underclassmen in question not spent the better part of the year following her around and imitating her every move. A theme song from one of those old Nick at Nite shows floated into her head: “They laugh alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike—you can lose your mind . . . ”
That sounded about right. And now Mini-Me and her best friend Mini-She were stuck to her like glue, jockeying for the right to clean off her cafeteria seat. The best time of my life? Harper thought dryly. Starting when?
“Why don’t you go get me something from the vending machine,” she suggested to Mini-She, then turned to Mini-Me. “And you can go buy me some lunch.”
“Coke? Diet Coke? Sprite? Vitamin Water? Gatorade? Snapple?”
“Salad? Meat loaf? Meat loaf and salad? And what kind of dressing? And what if there are fries? Or some kind of vegetable? Or—?”
“Vitamin water. Salad, make sure it’s not just lettuce, Italian dressing. And—” It was going to be a long day; she deserved a treat. “Plenty of fries.”
They were gone, and she was left with a blessed silence, so sweet that she was disinclined to scope out the cafeteria and find herself an appropriately high-powered table; better just to stand to the side for a moment and try to gather her strength. She’d been working on her icy, expressionless face, and she deployed it now. You never knew who was watching.
She didn’t notice him at first—people like that flew below her radar; and even when she registered his presence, dimly, all she noticed were the ripped jeans and the scuffed sneakers, the long hair and the grease-stained fingers, and she expected him to pass her by.
It wasn’t until he spoke that she looked at his face.
“Hey.” He slouched against a wall and tilted his head down, looking up at her briefly, then looking away again, as if stealing glances at the sun.
“Hey.” No stolen glances here; she stared, unabashedly, trying to figure out what Kaia had seen in him. There must have been something, but it was well disguised. True, his black T-shirt hugged some impressive arm muscles, and he did have that whole dark, sullen man of mystery thing going for him. But judging from the smell, the only mystery was how he’d managed to afford so much pot.
Probably grew his own, Harper decided. That’s what they always did on TV.
She knew she should say something caustic and send him away; he wasn’t the type she should be seen talking to, especially not now, with her reputation on the bubble. But she was too curious to hear what he was going to say—and how she was going to respond.
“I’m Reed,” he said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Kaia and me, we—”
“Yeah, I know that, too.” She didn’t, not really. Kaia had never talked much about her life. But she’d dropped enough hints, and Harper had witnessed one kiss steamy enough to confirm that something was going on.
“I want to ask ... I need to know . . .”
She felt a fist tighten around her heart. She’d been waiting for this, she realized. He would want to know all about it, what happened, every detail. Did she suffer? Did she scream? Did she know?
I don’t remember! Harper wanted to shout. I know what you know. Leave me alone. But she stayed silent and kept her placid, patient smile fixed on her face. Maybe she wanted him to ask. At the very least, she could understand why he wanted to know: She did, too.
“Were you two, like, friends?”
“What?” It was so far from what she’d been expecting that it took her a moment to process.
“I don’t know, I just thought—how are you, uh, doing?”
Harper let out a ragged breath, a precursor to a laugh or a sob—she wasn’t sure which. What did he want, some kind of partner in crime for his adventures in grieving? As if the two of them would walk off hand in hand somewhere and cry on each other s shoulders? As if she could ever open up to someone like him?
If not him, then who?
“Uh, anyway, if you ever need, like, to talk—” He put a hand on her shoulder. A wave of emotion washed through her, and it wasn’t the annoyance or revulsion she would have expected. It was comfort—and gratitude. You too, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t force the words out.
”Excuse me?” Mini-She slammed three bottles of soda down on the table and advanced toward Reed, hands on hips. “What are you doing here?”
“Am I hallucinating, or are you, like, touching her?” Mini-Me chimed in, sliding a heaping lunch tray next to the drinks and joining her co-clone.
“You must be hallucinating,” Mini-She pointed out, “because no way would someone like him be bothering someone like us.”
“Don’t you have, like, an engine to build?” Mini-Me asked. “Or some fires to set?”
“He’s pr
obably just begging for funds for his next pot buy,” Mini-She suggested. She waved disdainfully. “Sorry, but charity hour’s over for the day. Better luck next time.”
Harper wanted to stop them, but if she did that, and took a stand, it would surely mean something—and she didn’t have the energy to find out what.
“Yeah . . . ,” Reed mumbled. “This was a mistake. Later.”
“Try never!” Mini-Me called as he ambled away. Then she burst into giggles. “God, Harper, were you actually talking to that waste of space?”
“You’re such an airhead,” Mini-She taunted her friend. “She’s Queen for a Day, remember? She was just waiting around for us to get rid of him for her.”
“Which, by the way, you’re welcome.” Mini-Me did an exaggerated curtsy. “We’re at your service, as always.”
“Great job,” Harper said weakly She slumped into a chair at the nearest table. The giggle twins bounced down beside her.
“They didn’t have Vitamin Water,” Mini-She explained, pushing a handful of bottles across the table. “So I got you some Sprite, and Diet Coke, and some Poland Spring, and I can go back if you want something else. . . .”
“And the salad looked kind of dingy,” Mini-Me added, setting a tray in front of Harper. It was piled high with a lump of brownish slime, surrounded by heaps of creamy beige sludge. “So I got you the . . . well, I’m not sure what it is, but there’s plenty of protein. And then I got the mashed potatoes instead of the fries, you know, so there’d still be something healthy. . . .”
They gazed at her from across the table, identical expressions of nervous excitement trembling on their faces.
Harper felt sick at the thought of eating anything, especially the steaming heap sitting before her. She felt even sicker at the thought of sending the idiots away with a bitchy comment or two—much as she longed for some alone time, their words to Reed still hung in the air. They’d just been imitating her; she couldn’t bring herself to repay the favor.
“This is great, guys,” she said instead. “Everything’s fine. Thanks.” She grabbed the Sprite and took a fake sip. Ten minutes, she promised herself, and then she’d be up and out.
“You okay, Harper? You look kind of pale.”
“Yeah, and no offense, but you’re a little, like, sweaty. You sure you’re okay?”
The more times she had to say it, the bigger the lie. But it’s not like she had any other option.
“No worries,” she assured them. “I’m fine.”
“Beth, we still need a head for this article,” the copy editor called out.
“And we’re missing a photo for the Valentine’s Day piece,” the features editor called from the other side of the room.
Beth typed faster, trying to load in the changes to the front-page layout so she could deal with the hundred other things on her to-do list. It was times like this, rushing back and forth across the newsroom, slurping coffee, cutting and pasting, slapping on headlines, tweaking leads, and refereeing the occasional game of Nerf basketball, that she felt like a real editor in chief, the nerve center of a well-oiled fact-finding machine.
Then she remembered that, despite her best efforts, the paper rarely came out more than once a month—and when it did appear, its heartfelt missives on Homecoming Day hairdos and the debate team s latest victory ended up littering the floor of the cafeteria, crumpled and tossed aside before anyone had bothered to read them.
They weren’t a complete failure, she reminded herself. They’d managed to get a special Kaia memorial supplement out a couple weeks ago, filling it—despite the short notice and lack of sources—with photos, poems, and the occasional testimonial from someone who professed to have known and loved “that dear, departed soul.” Several of Beth’s teachers had complimented her on the fine tribute. It wasn’t the kind of compliment from which you could draw much joy—especially when you were still swimming in guilt.
Now things were back to normal, if you could call it normal when your front page featured an article about the sordid criminal past of the paper’s former sponsor. Beth should have been pleased: It was just the kind of hard news she’d always imagined importing to the Haven Gazette when she finally took the reigns. Along with all her other big plans, that dream had fallen by the wayside back in the fall, after her encounter with Mr. Powell.
Perhaps it was only fitting that, courtesy of Mr. Powell and his misdeeds, the Gazette was finally reporting something that mattered.
Beth had long dreamed of covering a story like this, rich with tantalizing details and actual import. But not this story. She hadn’t rushed an issue into print, hadn’t assigned anyone to pester the cops or the administration for details. Instead, she’d just picked up the story that had run in the Grace Herald earlier that month. It would be reprinted verbatim. And it would have to do.
Student-Teacher Scandal Rocks Haven High
Police uncover secret identity as French teach skips town
By Milton Jeffries
Staff writer, Grace Herald
Massachusetts state police are pursuing Jack Powell, aka Julian Payne, for questioning in regard to two statutory rape cases allegedly involving the former Haven High School French teacher. Grace police are similarly eager to question him regarding his relationship with Kaia Sellers, a Haven High senior who was killed in a hit-and-run the same week Powell fled town. Police have ruled the incident an accident and concluded it was unconnected.
Powell joined the Haven High faculty in the fall, professing several years of teaching experience and proffering impeccable— and apparently forged—references. The first indication that anything was amiss came in late January, when an anonymous tip led paramedics to discover Powell unconscious in his apartment. Kaia Sellers’s fingerprints were found at the scene, but she was killed the next day, before she could be questioned. Powell’s fingerprints, when run through a national database, revealed him to be Julian Payne, a British citizen who had disappeared from Stonehill, Massachusetts, six months earlier when allegations were made against him by two unnamed teenage girls.
Authorities at Stonehill Academy say that both girls are well-behaved, honor roll students who are to be commended for speaking out against their teacher. “We’re all grateful that they had the courage [to turn Payne in] and prevent this from happening again,” said Stonehill principal Patrick Darnton.
In Grace, area parents have expressed deep concern that a teacher with his background could have been employed by the high school; district officials say they had no sign Powell was not what he seemed.
Powell left the hospital, against medical advice, before Grace police were able to detain him. He has not been seen since.
She doesn’t know why she came.
Hospitals have always seemed dirty to her, grimy, as if the grayish tinge to the walls and the floor were just germs made visible, layers of illness, fluids, and death that had built up over the years.
Still, she comes here often, forces herself to suffer through the candy striping, pediatric parties, holiday gift distributions. She knows where the bedpans are stored and which nurses ignore the call light. And she knows where all the exits are; from the moment she steps inside, she is always planning her escape.
She has come to see Harper, but she doesn’t know why, and she doesn’t have the nerve to go through with it. She steps off the elevator and starts down the hallway, but there is Adam, hovering outside the room next to the Graces, whom she recognizes because, in a small town, there is no one you don’t know. She stops. She has nothing to say to any of these people. She has nothing to apologize for.
She has everything to apologize for.
Before she knows what she’s doing, she turns around, is back at the elevators, pressing the button, waiting. It has been like this all week. Doing things without knowing why. Making decisions without even noticing She wonders if she is in shock. Not over Kaia’s death—none of that seems real yet; it all has the feel of a bad movie she wandered into that will surely
end soon. No, if she is in shock, it is over what she has done, which is all too real and tangible, like the empty box on the edge of her nightstand that used to contain two yellow pills. She should throw it out, now that it’s not just a box—now that it’s evidence—but she can’t bring herself to do so.
The elevator doors open and she steps on blindly, just as she does everything, which is why she doesn’t see him until the doors close and it’s too late.
”Now this is a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the soft British accent she still hears in her nightmares. “And here I thought I’d have to leave without saying good-bye.”
She ignores him. There is a vent in the ceiling of the elevator, and from a certain angle she can see through the slits and watch the walls of the shaft sliding by. There is a fan in the vent, its sharp blades spinning fast enough that they would slice off a finger if she were tall enough to reach.
”I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he says. Unable to help herself, she glances toward him. There is a large white bandage on his forehead. His skin is pale. “Just a concussion, nothing to worry about.”
“I wasn’t ” she says sharply.
He smiles at her, and then his face goes flaccid, his eyes flutter, and he stumbles backward, slamming into the console of buttons, catching himself just before he slumps to the floor. The elevator jerks to a stop. Beth says nothing, does nothing. He breathes deeply once, twice, as if willing the color back into his face and the strength back into his body. His head lolls to one side, and he grasps the railing on the wall for support. There is nothing Beth can do to help; she need not feel guilty for doing nothing.
She feels guilty for being glad about it.
More deep breaths, and soon, his face is no longer white, and the smile is back. And the elevator is not moving.
”I’m fine now,” Powell says, touching his forehead gently. “Happens sometimes. ”
She doesn’t say anything.
He steps away from the wall to look at the console. “I must have hit the emergency stop button. Not to worry, I’ll have us moving again. Momentarily. ”
Sloth (Seven Deadly Sins (Simon Pulse)) Page 4
